


Game Night

by ratherastory



Category: White Collar
Genre: Community: run_the_con, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-06 03:48:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratherastory/pseuds/ratherastory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <span class="ljuser i-ljuser"><a href="http://treonb.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://treonb.livejournal.com/"><b>treonb</b></a></span>'s prompt of "traffic jam" at <span class="ljuser i-ljuser"></span><a href="http://run-the-con.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://run-the-con.livejournal.com/"></a><b>run_the_con</b>. Neal is on enforced bed rest after breaking his leg. He is definitely not moping. Absolutely not. Luckily, his friends are looking out for him.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Game Night

**Author's Note:**

> Neurotic Author's Note # 1: This took a lot longer to write than it should have, and I'm not sure I quite got the tone right. Oh well.  
> Neurotic Author's Note # 2: I actually ended up having to do research on when board games came out for this. What is happening? /o\

It can't be said that Neal Caffrey gets bored often. There's always something to do, a project to work on, a mark that needs studying. Even when he's not working he has his art or his books to keep him company, or the occasional dinner with Peter and El, or a long evening spent with Mozzie and a bottle of good single malt. And on those rare occasions when he doesn't have a project to keep him busy, he relishes those quiet nights when he can simply sit, sometimes with a glass of wine but more often just some sparkling mineral water, and gaze out on the city that he loves.

This afternoon is proving to be an exception to the rule. He supposes it's because he doesn't have a choice about being housebound that's making him antsy. The doctors said that in another week or so they might reconsider the verdict of bed rest and allow him to hobble out in search of adventures on a pair of crutches, but for now he's been sentenced to stay as still as possible, his leg encased in a cast that reaches past mid-thigh as the result of a bad break that hurt even more than that time he got shot.

At least they agreed on fiberglass, he consoles himself, wriggling his toes morosely, just to make sure they haven't fallen off while he wasn't looking. The movement makes his leg throb uncomfortably, but the painkillers are doing their job and keeping the worst of the pain at bay. Showering has been out of the question since he was released, but at least he's been able to give himself a more thorough sponge bath than anyone ever managed at the hospital, and he feels infinitely better in his own pajamas and silk robe than in the hospital gown that barely kept him decent half the time. Still, being clean and clothed in familiar garb isn't enough to stave off the boredom that results from being bedridden for days. It's not that he doesn't enjoy the occasional lie-in, but having it enforced is something entirely different. He'd just like to have the option to go out, he thinks petulantly, fussing with the sheet on his bed.

Outside he can just make out the street, where cars are inching forward amid a cacophony of blaring horns and shouted insults. He lies back, staring at the ceiling, and wonders if he should try to find a ping-pong ball that he could toss at the wall. At least it would keep him occupied. Instead all he's been doing lately is lying around idly with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company, looking forward with increasing desperation to the few times someone or other has come around to visit. With everything that's been happening lately, his thoughts haven't made for the most pleasant of playgrounds.

The door to his apartment swung open, and Mozzie's voice cut through the silence. "Greetings! I come with nourishment and reinforcements!"

He should have put on some music, Neal thinks belatedly. It would have gone a little ways to making things more bearable here. Automatically he moves to get up, only for a sharp pain in his thigh to remind him what a spectacularly bad idea that is.

"Stay put," Peter steps into the room, one hand lifted to motion him back onto his bed. "Don't undo all the doctors' hard work, we need you back on your feet ASAP. Isn't that right, hon?"

Neal feels his face split into a smile in spite of himself. Of course everyone's been dropping in now and then or phoning to check up on him, but it's rare that more than one person shows up at a time, and even then it's never been for long. Mozzie's been off gathering intel in his taxi cab, Peter's been busy at the office—doubly so now that Neal isn't there to help with investigations—and up until recently he thought El was in the midst of pulling together a huge fundraising gala.

El is currently staggering under the weight of the largest basket Neal has ever seen, covered with several brightly coloured tea towels to conceal its contents. She dumps it unceremoniously in Peter's arms, and comes over to plant a kiss on Neal's forehead.

"How are you feeling, sweetie?"

"Much improved now that you've kissed me better," Neal gives her the best roguish wink he can manage under the circumstances, and is rewarded with a smile and a twinkle in her eyes.

"Scoundrel. June said you were depressed."

Neal has the uncomfortable impression that he's blushing. He shakes his head, ducking away from El's scrutiny. "No, I was just a little bored."

"I said no such thing!" June admonishes from where she's just appeared in the doorway. "I said you were moping."

"I wasn't moping!"

Mozzie tilts his head in a gesture that's not quite a shrug. "You do tend to mope when you don't have anything productive to do with your time. You get all morose, and, well, mopey."

"Anyway, we're here to cheer you up," El says brightly. "Hon, will you help me set up?"

"I'm going to leave that part to Mozzie and June," Peter says. "We can't set up near the bed, it won't work. Neal, you up to switching to an armchair if I help you?"

"Leave the bed where I've been imprisoned for days?" Neal rolls his eyes. "And here I was starting to really enjoy being completely bedridden."

"Don't be a smart alec," Peter chides, even as he's helping Neal to his feet and handing him a crutch to use for balance.

It's not far to the chaise longue in Neal's living room, but today it feels like three miles, and by the time they get there Neal has broken out in a cold sweat. He lets his head fall back against the chair, eyes screwed shut, trying to breathe through the pain. Peter gently lifts his leg onto an ottoman and props a cushion under his heel for support, then drapes a blanket over his knees.

"Hang on, I'll go get your pills."

The pain is already beginning to fade by the time Peter gets back with the pills and a glass of cool water from the fridge, but Neal accepts them both anyway, keeping his eyes closed until he's sure he can pull off his poker face again. When he opens them he finds that El, June and Mozzie have rearranged his whole apartment, pulling the kitchen table up as close to him as possible along with four other chairs. El has put out a spread fit for kings, with baguette and soft rolls and slices of rye bread that are still steaming, and a seemingly endless supply of cheese and pate and various jams, along with an enormous bowl overflowing with fruit. El must see his eyes widen in surprise and not a little delight, because she throws her head back with a laugh.

"Easy to obtain, easy to clean up. I thought you might be bored of whatever's in your refrigerator, and some of this is light enough that if your pills are bothering your stomach, you can still eat some of it. You're already in danger of wasting away. I brought wine, but I think we'll have to drink it for you."

He nods, swallowing a sudden lump in his throat. "I have San Pellegrino in the fridge," he says, instead of the 'thank you' that he intended. El seems to understand, though, and nods before leaving the room to go find it.

"The Suit here seemed to think that pleasant company and conversation might not be enough to keep you entertained," Mozzie says, the disapproval obvious in his tone.

Peter rolls his eyes. "That's not what I said."

June interrupts before an argument can spring up. "Now, Mozzie, board games are fun, and they're something we can do while talking. It also means that Neal won't have to put himself out."

"We could at least have played cards," Mozzie says mutinously.

"Out of the question," Peter shakes his head. "Between the three of you? El and I would be out of the game within minutes, if not faster."

Neal shifts in his seat, accepts the pillow that June hands him, then leans over the table to pluck a grape from the bowl. "So what did you bring?" he asks, popping the grape into his mouth and barely refraining from moaning in appreciation as the tart juice bursts against his palate.

"I brought my copies of _Scrabble_ and _Monopoly_ ," Mozzie starts, only to be interrupted by Peter.

"And El is a bit of a collector, so she brought _Trivial Pursuit_ , in the hopes that we might actually win now that you're drug-addled."

"No chance," Neal reaches for a pear and bites into it. It's perfect, the skin still crisp but the flesh yielding and pulpy on his tongue. "Mozzie routinely wipes the floor with me on that game. Never play against someone with an eidetic memory, it serves no purpose."

"Spoilsport."

El returns with the bottle of water. "There's also _Settlers of Catan_ , dominoes, _Ticket to Ride_ , _Pandemic_ —"

"Nothing with germs," Mozzie shudders, and ignores June's snort of derision.

"What's this one?" Neal points at a box with a picture of brightly coloured plastic cars on the front.

"Oh, that's _Rush Hour_ ," El says, directing a smug look at Peter that Neal can't quite figure out. "I like it, but Peter's a big wuss about playing it."

Peter rolls his eyes. "I get stuck in New York traffic every day. Why would I want to recreate that in the comfort of my own living room?" It has all the sounds of an old argument. "Besides, it's a two-player game."

"We could have teams," June proposes, as though it's already been settled that this is what they'll be playing. Maybe it has been settled, Neal realizes, as El pulls out the game and begins setting it up on the table between a loaf of bread and a plate of cheese. "I'll play with Neal, and the three of you can—well, if you can't work together, at least we'll all be very entertained watching Peter and Mozzie argue."

Peter opens his mouth to argue, and Neal bursts into laughter. Finally Peter subsides with a sheepish shake of the head. "Oh, fine."

June's prediction comes true within only a few minutes. El seems content to let Mozzie and Peter argue until they're blue in the face, turning aside to chat quietly with June while Mozzie points out indignantly that only the profoundest of imbeciles would move the blue car first.

"It makes perfect sense," Peter is saying. "That clears the way for the green truck and subsequently for those two yellow cars."

"The object of the game is to win! If we move everything in precisely the right sequence, then we'll lose!"

"It's a collaborative game, not a competitive one," El points out, and Mozzie sulks.

"There's no such thing. All games are competitive. In the end, someone has to win."

Four rounds in, Neal finds he can't quite keep track of the game anymore, even if it's simple enough. His eyes keep closing of their own accord, no matter how much he fights against falling sleep. The voices around him drop to hushed whispers.

"Should we go?" Mozzie asks.

"He's fine," June says. "Just let him rest."

"He should be in bed."

"Don't be a wet blanket, hon. Neal is never better than when he's got his friends by him."

He's too tired to open his eyes and agree with El, but it turns out he doesn't have to. A moment later Mozzie proposes moving a yellow car, Peter immediately protests, and the last thing Neal hears before he succumbs entirely is the pleasant hum of the voices of his family all around him, enveloping him in warmth.


End file.
